XXII Fragments

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By AIRTON PASCHOA*

five short pieces

Tax haven

Money grows on trees and fruit is not forbidden. It grows and multiplies as it is bitten. So far within reach, in fact, is the point of agreement that it is a sin not to give in to temptation and not put your hand in it. A plentiful harvest, what to do? If there are no beatrizes, there are still actresses and models... atrocious as actresses but model as whores. Fleeing the vulgarity of the fall, that is the exquisitely rare, distinguished, odd, and commandless way of holding us to Him. We can go down to earth as we please, not to the ground, God forbid! not even six feet under. We got low enough to levitate without danger and enjoy the most divine pleasure that it has been given to man to aspire - the caress of desperate, delighted nails, to the fine flower of our plant.

 

neofrancismo

He was frank: he believed in bugresia and fought for it without respite, whether in newspaper columns or in the newspaper. front from Leblon. He wielded the dice and threw them left and right. Not taking into account the root of the problem, the fiscal deficit, Hayek let us down! it was a root problem, of intellectual deficit. But all was not lost: even if Social Security ruinously rivaled Providence or here and there prevailed, to the detriment of private benefit, the public vice of the State, there was no reason to disbelieve in progress. How long did it take the first cell, from the bottom of the ocean, to climb up to him, Guga? And he returned to the sea.

 

automatic subject

to Leda

The modern age has always demanded progress. It is the law of the highest, greatest, maximum, that runs through the spine of history, making its hair stand on end. The light is turned on and off, the gas is turned on and off, the fire is turned on and off, the water is turned on and off, everything is turned on and off. Automatic is the world, objects, subjects, reflections, and so on, until the end of the trail, turning on and off, excluding those turned off. Who would live too, without disconnecting from time to time? Hence the imperative need for the switch, in the eagerness to prevent short circuit after short circuit like ours. Without the blessed one (I could have sworn it was here) it's definitely darkness or eternal light.

 

flat earthism

How badly one ages in this land — flat, progressively flat, such is the irrelevance! Fatigue of considering the enormous past that the country has ahead of it, in Millôr's priceless sentence. Thus passing, with the naturalness of carnivals, from the left to the center-left, from the center-left to the center, from the center to the center-right, from the center-right to the right, from the right to the extreme right, and from there to the better, the center of this, in the unfortunate lack of hell. You can presume, of course, that if you live badly, you will also die badly… Nothing could be farther from the truth. Privileged people, poets, artists, scientists, intellectuals, live in enviable conditions compared to the common people.

As for the stress, it now occurs to me, to the detriment of current developments, boredom can compete with the immobile landscape. Sensitive minds, there would be nothing left to do but join hands with the rotation.

 

harmonica science

I got to know love and hate, jealousy, envy, anger, gluttony, the five deadly sins, with a particular predilection (tropical, God willing) for lust and laziness.

I have never known avarice or arrogance, except for this silly pride of summoning words and bullfighting stampede.

I have known friendship and not vanity.

I knew poverty and fatherhood, unique wealth, both deep and founding experiences, without prejudice to sinking, depending on the hull.

I met father and mother, I could not love them. Don't ask me why. Love knows no justice.

I knew remorse, which bites and gnaws whenever memory, malicious, sniffs bones in the backyard.

I have known weakness without knowing virtue.

I met disillusionment, without recognizing hope.

I have not known faith, personal comfort that I have been deprived of.

I met death, young man, inseparable companion throughout life.

Know the University.

I know the Revolution.

Know Poetry.

I didn't know high creation, that which only the greatest artists achieve in almost mysterious circumstances. I got to know the creation of everyday life, homemade, ordinary, small and precarious handicrafts, powered by a smaller lathe, only able to give birth to tinplate sheets and flagrantes (of luck and fright).

Did I know what men know?

Apart from Poetry and the Revolution, certainly what the bulk of a certain caste, average, certain country, mediocre, certain court and certain eschatological city knows.

I don't leave dissatisfied, nor satisfied. Not even even. Divorced, if you like, incompatibility of geniuses, life deferred and the loafer hating.

I have known certain mornings of blue and rayed light that made me trust in the dawn. But that's been a while and one thing that time does is erase fingerprints.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of Bain marie (e-galaxia, 2021, 2nd edition, magazine).

 

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